


Someone Like You

by dannyfranx, Saras_Girl



Series: Turn!verse [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dannyfranx/pseuds/dannyfranx, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saras_Girl/pseuds/Saras_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ginny is going to get through this sodding Ministry ball if it kills her. And she’s going to do it alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone Like You

**Author's Note:**

> Written with my lovely wife Marie and inspired by 'Someone Like You' by Adele

The heavy door closes behind her with a soft click and Ginny sighs, looking around at what is possibly the fanciest bathroom she has ever seen. The fittings are weighty and lustrous, the scent of orchids cloaks the air, and arrayed in a basket by the sink are more expensive soaps and hand lotions than anyone could feasibly need. It is immediately and disappointingly clear that her hopes for a momentary delay in joining the extravagance of the Ministry’s annual Spring Ball are pointless, because she feels just as small and displaced in here as she did in the entrance hall, the cloakroom and the grounds. The ballroom, she reminds herself, is the ultimate goal, and she will get there. She can hear the music, filtering softly under the door and sinking into the plush carpet, just like the spindly heels that have been abandoned in the back of her wardrobe for far too long.  
  
She doesn’t wobble, though, because her spine is made of iron and her shoulders of stone; no one else here needs to know that her insides are a seething mass of uncertainties. She is here because she was invited, which she always is, and she wants to be, which is not quite new, but at least almost forgotten. She might also have a little something to prove, but that’s her business. She’s not Harry Potter’s wife any more, but she’s not about to go into hiding.  
  
She could, though. She could just slip out of here before anyone sees her, stick this shamefully expensive dress back in her closet and curl up in bed in her pyjamas. Al and Lily are at the Burrow for the night; no one would ever know.  
  
Meeting her own eyes in the enormous, gilt-framed mirror, she gives herself the stern look that she learned, a long time ago, from her mother. It never fails.  
  
“You would know,” she tells her reflection. It looks quietly back, eyebrows knitted anxiously. She lifts her hand and watches it comb through her hair, letting it swing back against her shoulders in a vivid, shiny curtain. New hair, for a new start—at least, that’s what the hairdresser had assured her. Oddly enough, she doesn’t actually _feel_ any different. The dress, too, is far more elaborate than anything she has ever worn before, and she can’t help wondering exactly what message she is trying to send out.  
  
It is beautiful, though, sage green watered silk to the knee with a diaphanous fall of sheer fabric that grazes the floor. Lily had loved it, and that, of course, is the other reason why she can’t just cut and run. Not when she promised her daughter, as she perched on the end of her bed and watched her get ready, that she would take a good look at everything and then put her memory in the Pensieve, so that Lily could share all of the robes and dresses and opulence she’s been itching to see.  
  
She leans closer to the mirror, fingers pressed to the cold marble of the sink, and gives herself one last firm glance. So, people are going to look. So, that bloody Ministry photographer is going to take her picture and she’s probably going to be on her own in it. Well, bugger it. She could have accepted Ron and Hermione’s offer (or entreaty) to arrive at the ball with them, but the stubbornness she has always had in common with her ex-husband has led her here. To this ridiculous bathroom, where the overhead lights make her skin seem whiter even than usual, and she wonders if she can blame Al for her last-minute decision not to add just a little bit of colour.  
  
 _“Don’t you know that pale is ‘in’, Mum?” he’d told her as he’d bounced into her bedroom—at last, it’s starting to feel like **her** bedroom— at the start of the Easter break, shedding his school paraphernalia all over the floor and examining all the pots and bottles on her dressing table._  
  
She smiles now at the memory and several of the lines drop away from her face.  
  
 _“Where did you hear that?”  
  
“Cosmopolitan,” Al had said airily, picking up a jar of bronzing powder and waggling it in her face. “So you don’t need this stuff.”  
  
“Should I even ask?” she had wondered, simultaneously realising that the idea of Al reading fashion magazines would not be in the least surprising. In fact, nothing that boy does can surprise her any more.  
  
“It was on the cover. You know, in the newsagents. Mr Singh doesn’t mind as long as you don’t open them—then he says...”  
  
“This isn’t a library,” she had murmured along with him. _  
  
Mr Singh has not changed much in twenty years, but she has. And she can do this.  
  
She takes a deep breath, smoothes down her dress and turns her back on the mirror. Her heels clack on the shiny wooden floor as she makes her way to the ballroom. Alone. At the entrance, a tall man in dark dress robes looks her over briefly with an expert eye, but she merely looks back at him, absolutely determined not to be intimidated.  
  
“How would madam like to be announced?” he inquires, voice low and, she thinks, a little condescending.  
  
“Excuse me?” She frowns. It may have been a while since she came to one of these things but she’s never been asked... Exhaling gently, she closes her eyes, just for a moment. She’s always been with Harry. She’s always just been Harry’s wife. When she opens her eyes again, the man is watching her raptly, stiffened as though he isn’t going to take a breath until he hears her answer. Which rather adds an element of pressure that isn’t needed.  
  
She anchors herself to the smooth, slippery fabric of her evening bag and thinks. She hasn’t changed her name and she isn’t planning to. There are plenty of Weasleys in the world, and besides, Ginny Potter is who she is now—she’s had Harry’s name almost as long as she hasn’t had it, and she doesn’t see why she should hand it back because he doesn’t belong to her any more. She swallows hard and glances at the tall man, who is beginning to look oxygen-starved. Resisting the temptation to roll her eyes, she fishes around for a compromise.  
  
Ten seconds later, she walks into the ballroom to the relieved-sounding announcement:  
  
“Ladies and gentlemen, Ms Ginevra Potter.”  
  
As expected, the room falls almost silent, but for the swirling music being produced by what looks like a small orchestra in the far corner, as Ginny finds herself the focus of many, many pairs of eyes. She catches her breath, hovering in the entrance and trying to scan the room discreetly for familiar faces. As she does, she realises with some amazement that the attention, while somewhat overwhelming, is not unfriendly. In fact, the growing hum in the air feels merely like surprise.  
  
Sagging inwardly, she allows her shoulders to relax a fraction and casts her eyes over the first few dancers, the little knots of people at tables and around the edges of the floor, the smartly-dressed men and women circulating with silver trays of canapés, the elaborate arrangements of fresh flowers and the splashes of vivid colour provided by the formal gowns, robes and suits of the guests. The room is vast, pale blue walls broken by floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the fading sunset. She wonders just how long it has been since she has thrown herself into this kind of grandeur, and how long it will be before she dares to do it again.  
  
As her gaze flicks back across the dance floor, her eyes meet startled green ones and her stomach tightens quite without her permission. Beside him, an older man with an impressive beard is talking at length, but Harry isn’t listening, she knows he isn’t. She knows him.  
  
He looks good. Lily will be impressed with her father tonight, she thinks. Dressed in pale grey with a long, tailored jacket and a waistcoat in bright azure blue, he looks stylish, modern, put-together, and more than that, he seems at ease with it. Ginny wonders when that happened, because the man she married wouldn’t have even been able to stand still comfortably in an outfit like that. Harry is handsome—he’s always been handsome—but he’s also confident and seems to exude laid-back charisma from all the way across the room. She bites her lip gently against the little twinge of pain—because he’s all this without her—and smiles at him.  
  
He smiles back, surprise still etched across his face, and she can’t decide if he’s surprised because she’s here or because she’s all done up, just like he is. She doubts somehow that she looks quite as comfortable with it, but she can hope. She thinks for a moment he might abandon his acquaintance and coming rushing over to her, but he doesn’t and she’s relieved. He nods a silent promise of _later_ , and turns back to the man with the beard.  
  
 _I wonder where Draco Malfoy is this evening_ , she muses silently, and then there’s a hand on her arm and the thought is lost to the night.  
  
“Come and sit with us,” Hermione says, pulling her gently over to a table where Ron and what looks like half of the Auror department are sitting. “Ginny’s here, everyone—I told you she was coming!”  
  
“Yeah, she was about to send out a search party,” Ron laughs, but when he looks up at her, his eyes widen comically. “Gin, you look...” He pauses, wrinkling his nose. “Nice.”  
  
She laughs at her brother and it feels good. Normal. “Thanks, Ron. I’m sure that was hard to say.”  
  
“Shut up. I’m just not used to seeing you all dressed up, that’s all,” he mutters, pulling a not-very-mature face at her and turning back to the colleague to his left, a serious-looking woman with bright blue eyes.  
  
Ginny says nothing, opting instead to get a good look at Uncle Ron’s outfit for Lily. Unsurprisingly, he is wearing the same plain black dress robes that he has worn to every formal event for as long as she can remember, and he still manages to look slightly uncomfortable in them, as though anything but Auror browns or his favourite jeans just doesn’t feel right. Hermione, on the other hand, is incredibly elegant in a long, dusky pink gown with an unusual silvery leaf pattern.  
  
“You look great,” Ginny says, accepting a glass of something sparkling from a passing waitress.  
  
Hermione smiles but ducks her head self-consciously, tucking a couple of escaped curls behind her ear. “Thanks. So do you. I hope this doesn’t sound awful but I’m really proud of you for coming.”  
  
“No, of course not. Why would it?”  
  
Hermione shrugs, looking up at last. “You’re a big girl. You might not want people to be proud of you.”  
  
Ginny smiles and takes a sip of her drink, hesitating as she relishes the dance of the bubbles on her tongue. “I don’t mind it... though I doubt you’d be proud if you saw how long I spent hiding in the bathroom,” she admits, watching Hermione’s lips twitch at the shared confidence.  
  
“I still think my pride was well-placed,” she says firmly, reaching for something under the table. “Anyway, I saw the bathroom. I think I could live in that bathroom.”  
  
Ginny looks under the table, too, then bats Hermione’s hand away from the object and hoists it into her lap. “You could live in this bag!” she laughs. “I can’t believe you brought it.”  
  
“You brought a handbag,” Hermione points out, looking unconvinced by her own logic.  
  
“I brought this,” Ginny says, holding up her miniscule confection of silk and voile, barely big enough to hold her money and her lipstick. “This, on the other hand, could probably be used as a murder weapon.” She has never been quite sure what lives inside Hermione’s bag, but knowing her skill with charms, it’s probably far more impressive even than it appears. Already it feels as though a decent-sized child is occupying her lap, and she has no idea how Hermione carries it with her wherever she goes.  
  
“You never know when you might need something,” she says weakly, as Ginny prods at the half-open zip and brushes her fingers over what can only be the pages of a book. Gleefully, she pulls it out, and Hermione doesn’t stop her.  
  
“Did you think you might get bored tonight?” she asks, turning the book over. “Oh.” She blinks, surprised, and looks from the title to Hermione in inquiry. “‘ _Starting Over: the newly-single witch’s guide to the dating game_ ’?”  
  
“I... well, I just...” Hermione falls silent, pressing her lips together and staring desperately at Ginny. “It’s not for me,” she adds suddenly. “Me and Ron, we’re not... you know. Breaking up.”  
  
Ginny glances at Ron, but he doesn’t seem to have heard. She sighs.  
  
“Is this for me?”  
  
Hermione twists her hands in her lap, face torn between anguish and enthusiasm. “Sort of. I’ve been reading it so that... when you decide you’re ready—if you decide you’re ready,” she amends quickly, “maybe I can... help? I don’t know, it sounds really stupid now, but I was thinking and I realised that none of us really have very much experience at this sort of thing, and I... what?”  
  
Hermione stares at her, face lightly flushed, and all Ginny can do is heave the bag from her lap, lean across the table and give her best friend a hug. Hermione’s arms come up around her even as she releases a soft sound of confusion against Ginny’s cheek. She grips the book tightly, feeling the sharp edges of the myriad paper markers placed by Hermione to highlight important passages, and reclaims her seat with a warmed heart.  
  
“Thank you,” she says, slipping the book back into Hermione’s handbag. “I suppose you should have this back—you know, so you can complete your research.”  
  
Hermione says nothing and just smiles, leaning back slightly in her chair and looking out onto the dance floor. Ginny follows her lead, allowing her attention to wander. The announcements are infrequent now as the room fills to capacity, and she is startled by the number of unfamiliar faces in the chattering, glittering crowd. Once upon a time, she would have known at least a little about every person at an event like this—now, she barely runs out of fingers to count the guests she might approach without making an idiot out of herself. Maybe she should read Hermione’s book after all, before her social life dies completely.  
  
Then again, she thinks as Ron bursts into laughter at the other side of the table and she finds herself smiling into her drink, she has her family. She has her parents, her brothers, three beautiful children, a wonderful sister-in-law, and a... well, a Harry. He’ll always be hers, one way or another, and there’s no changing the way things are. The past, at once comforting and raw, is set. The future is uncertain.  
  
The future is Draco Malfoy, she supposes, at least for Harry and in part for her and the children, whether she likes it or not, and she doesn’t mind it nearly as much as she thinks she should. She sees him now, standing at Harry’s side and following with narrowed eyes a man that she recognises as Harry’s former boss, Mr Fitzwilliam. Draco looks particularly striking this evening in a short, dark green tailcoat, knee breeches and polished boots with too many little buckles to count, and while a small, malicious part of Ginny wants to laugh because he looks quite a bit like a pirate, she doesn’t, because it’s still a very stylish pirate, and also because she’s impressed to see him out of his uniform of black three-piece suits.  
  
And because Harry can’t keep his eyes off him, and that fact just isn’t quite as funny. He looks happy, though, and when Draco turns to him, laughs, and rests a hand on his arm, he just lights up.  
  
“Look at them,” Hermione says softly, apparently failing to notice that Ginny is already looking.  
  
“Yeah,” Ginny manages, tracing Harry’s unguarded smile with her eyes and making a silent vow to have Draco Malfoy murdered if he fucks this up. Strike that, she’ll do it herself.  
  
Hermione’s eyes are on her, she can feel them, but she waits.  
  
“I know I’m hardly the last word in style...” Hermione says at last. Pauses.  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“But... well, don’t you think those breeches are a bit...?”  
  
“Odd?”  
  
“I was going to say piratey. But that as well,” Hermione admits, and Ginny grins.  
  
“Webster, I’m not even going to try,” Ron says with a snort of laughter. “Anyway, Harry’s our resident expert!” He turns, mouth stretched wide and face flushed. “Harry, do your impression of... oh, bugger.”  
  
Ron’s eyes widen with horror as he stares at Ginny and she stares back for several slow seconds before the world clicks back into normal speed and she realises exactly what has just happened.  
  
“Gin, I’m so sorry,” he sighs, looking like all he wants to do is slap himself in the face.  
  
“Don’t be daft, it’s fine,” she assures, and it’s not, not really; it’s awkward, and it’s just another reminder that four have become three. But it’s not his fault, and she can see the guilt draining the colour from his face, so she smiles.  
  
Across the table, Hermione is frowning and looking at her hands. When she looks up, her face is set.  
  
“Auror Potter!” she booms, aping Kingsley’s voice with relative accuracy. Ron jumps. “Why do you always go steaming in like a hurricane at Mardi Gras?”  
  
“That makes absolutely no sense,” says Webster, grinning widely.  
  
“Bloody hell, Hermione,” Ron murmurs, staring at his wife as though there are no words to express just how wonderful he thinks she is.  
  
“Well, someone had to say it. And no,” she adds, picking up her glass and looking at Webster. “It didn’t make any sense when he said it the first time, either.”  
  
He shrugs. “I suppose you don’t always need to make sense when you’re Minister for Magic.”  
  
Ginny thinks Webster may be right, and whatever the truth of the matter, that tight, discomfited feeling is disintegrating inside her, crumbling into tiny pieces and leaving her with every exhalation. She is going to be alright.  
  
**~*~**  
  
The sky outside the windows is dark as Ginny bites cautiously into another tiny canapé and just about stops it from exploding all down the front of her dress. Checking that no one is paying attention, she stuffs the whole thing into her mouth and wipes her fingers on a linen napkin just as the same waiter yet again—she’s beginning to wonder if he’s up to something—appears at her side and asks if she’d like another. She declines, instead leaning on the table on crossed arms and watching the swirl of dresses and coats on the packed dance floor. She has danced with Ron—always an experience—and a couple of Gringotts colleagues, but she is more than happy to sit on the periphery and watch, and not only because her sense of rhythm leaves a lot to be desired.  
  
Blaise is here; she’s seen him a few times now, but he’s pretty hard to miss. He doesn’t dance, either, but seems happy to talk to anyone and everyone with absolute disregard for propriety or standing of any kind. That assistant of his is here, too, the one he doesn’t seem to be able to go anywhere without. Kerensa, that’s her name. Ginny grips her wine glass firmly as the two of them share a joke, and Blaise’s rumbling laughter seems to lift above the tangled sounds of the ball. She is pretty and nice and a little bit cheeky, but she is far too young for him. Not that it’s any of her concern.  
  
Harry and Draco have been circulating far more diligently than she has, working the room like an established couple; they separate, mix, and chat, but fall back to one another’s sides every few minutes as though drawn by some invisible force. He tells her that nothing has happened between them, and she supposes it’s none of her business any more, but she believes him. She believes him because despite the fact that their attraction is painfully obvious to her, she knows what Harry looks like when he’s lying, and so does he, which is, she imagines, why he has so rarely tried it over the years.  
  
Her attention is pulled from Harry by the all-too-familiar sound of hobbling high-heeled footsteps, followed immediately by a sigh and a wave of rustling fabric and heady perfume as Indira Shacklebolt drops into the seat beside her. Ginny glances at her and smiles, intimidated as ever by this woman’s grace and exotic beauty. She never knows quite what to say. The minister’s wife, on the other hand, doesn’t suffer from the same problem. She shoots Ginny a dazzling grin that rapidly twists into a grimace.  
  
“It’s wonderful to see you, Ginny,” she murmurs, staring daggers at her feet.  
  
She sounds surprised, just like everybody else. Ginny half-wonders if she should plan to attend more of these functions, just to keep everyone on their toes. After all, nobody expects the recent divorcee.  
  
“Sitting down already, Indira?” Hermione teases, leaning across the table on her elbows. “I thought I heard something about dancing all night!”  
  
Indira’s brow wrinkles in distaste. “Believe me, that was the plan. Unfortunately, these shoes seem to have other ideas,” she sighs, extending a slender leg and gazing ruefully at a high heeled sandal that, while exquisite, looks as though it would be hell on earth to wear. Ginny wrinkles her nose in sympathy and wriggles her toes inside her comparatively granny-sensible shoes. “Mind you, I think Kingsley is relieved I’ve given up. There are only so many times a man can have his feet stepped on and remain dignified.”  
  
“You’re a lovely dancer,” Ginny insists. “Don’t listen to a word of it.”  
  
Indira smiles, and across the table, so does Hermione. In fact, Hermione is grinning and ducking beneath the table, and when she emerges with her bag clutched in both hands, Ginny thinks her face is at risk of splitting from pure delight.  
  
“I have just the thing,” she announces, rummaging for a moment and then emerging with a small potion bottle and a handful of blister plasters. “You’ll be back on the floor in no time.”  
  
Indira accepts the items with immense dignity and excuses herself to the bathroom. Hermione beams and hugs her bag tightly, all the while flicking stern glances in Ginny’s direction. She is just contemplating whether or not she needs to _apologise_ to the bag when Hermione’s caught breath makes her look up.  
  
“Harry,” she says, all out of other useful words for the moment.  
  
He blinks, frowns, takes a deep breath, then tucks one hand behind his back, holding the other one out to her. “I was wondering if I might have this dance?”  
  
An expectant hush falls over the table and Ginny’s stomach flips violently, even though she knows that it’s ridiculous. It’s just Harry, after all. It’s just her ex-husband. And if he didn’t look so handsome and confident, it really wouldn’t be a big deal. And it isn’t, so she nods and gets to her feet, unable to stop herself from darting a quick glance at Hermione, whose eyebrows are attempting to climb up into her hairline. The amusement takes a little of the edge from her discomfort and she allows Harry to lead her out onto the floor.  
  
The crowds do not part for them as they did at the first few functions after the war, and for that, she is grateful. The dance is a familiar one, slow and sedate, and she sinks into it, feeling cautiously for the rhythm and allowing her fingers to press against the heavy fabric of Harry’s suit coat.  
  
 _One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four_ , sweeps the music as she gazes idly over Harry’s shoulder and then at nothing at all as she lets her eyes fall closed. She doesn’t think he will ever be an accomplished dancer, but tonight his steps and his hold are more assured than ever before. His scent—earthy and warm—is the same as it has always been and she breathes it in guiltily, letting rose-tinted memories creep in around her, just for a moment, because it’s easier than remembering the distance and the fearful gloom of two people who are no longer enough for each other.  
  
His fingers tighten around hers as they change direction, brushing roughened knuckles and calluses against her skin. There’s a blister on his thumb and she knows there are burns, too, even without opening her eyes. Harry’s hands are different now, just as he is. He’s thrown it all in, turned his back on everything that’s expected of him and gone to make things. Because he wants to, and, to everyone’s surprise but hers, because he can. He’s always been creative—someone had to help the kids with their art projects, take pictures of family holidays, make elaborate beds for cats who then chose to sleep on Lily’s feet anyway, and that someone was never Ginny.  
  
He was never really suited for a desk job; she knows that as well as he does. In hindsight, he stuck it out for far longer than he ever should have, and she can’t pretend to be surprised by how stifled and weary he became. She watched it happen, and she hated herself for it. His reinvention has been at least as heartening to watch as it has been painful, and, she reminds herself, it doesn’t matter that she can’t claim a shred of credit for it.  
  
She’s proud of him, the daft bugger, and she loves him. She has always loved him. She wonders if it’s possible not to love him; it certainly doesn’t seem to have taken Draco very long, whatever her oblivious idiot of an ex-husband might say. Perhaps it’s best if she doesn’t even try.  
  
“Gin?”  
  
Slowly, she opens her eyes and resumes gazing over Harry’s shoulder. “Yeah?”  
  
“Is there a reason you don’t want to look at me? I mean, besides the obvious?”  
  
Ginny bites her lip. “And what would that be, exactly?” she asks, wondering if this is as strange-not-strange for him as it is for her.  
  
“Well...” he sighs. “Okay. I was going to brazen it out and say ‘because I look so devastatingly handsome that you might decide you want me back’ but I don’t think I can pull it off. At least, not without looking like a complete wanker.”  
  
Ginny does look at him now, because she’s amused. Because she wants to smile in that dark, crackly, _only-because-it’s-you,-Harry-Potter_ kind of way. “I see Draco is rubbing off on you,” she says before she can stop herself, and the surprise in his eyes is strangely gratifying.  
  
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he says, feigning quiet outrage.  
  
“You do that,” she murmurs, relishing the sensation—or perhaps the illusion—that the floor beneath her feet is more solid than before as they continue to step, sway, and turn.  
  
Harry says nothing for a good few seconds but she keeps her eyes on him, partly to prove that she can, and partly because doing so allows her to further examine his almost immaculate clothing, his new ruffly haircut, and the rest. She examines the light stubble on his chin and wonders if it, too, is part of his new and improved image, or if some things just never change and he merely forgot to shave it.  
  
“I thought maybe you didn’t want to look at me because this was a bit too weird for you,” he says at last, glancing at her uncertainly and hopping slightly to avoid stepping on her foot.  
  
“The dancing?”  
  
He shrugs and blinks those ridiculously green eyes. “Any of it. I just... I really don’t want it to be weird.” With a long, shuddering exhalation, he stares at something over her left shoulder and she doesn’t need to turn around to know what’s happening, because he is drawing strength from something in the room and it isn’t her. Not any more. “I realise it’s my fault and everything, but I just want—”  
  
“Harry,” she interrupts firmly. “We are going to be fine.”  
  
He stares at her, eyes bright, and she smiles, holding as tightly as she can to the rhythm: _one, two, three, four; one, two, three, four..._  
  
She has to keep dancing.  
  
She has to let him go.  
  
She thought she already had, but like most ridiculous grown-up things, it doesn’t seem to be as easy as that.  
  
“Gin, I really am...”  
  
“Don’t even think about it,” she instructs, smiling to the Shacklebolts as they make their way back out onto the dance floor. Kingsley nods and Indira smiles back, looking much happier thanks to Hermione’s bag of wonders.  
  
Harry wrinkles his nose apologetically and tightens his hold at her waist. He still knows how to make a woman feel safe, she muses, even if he prefers something a bit more exciting these days.  
  
“I suppose I just keep wondering if there’s something I can do,” he says, voice scratchy with a vulnerability that rather crumbles his sophisticated image.  
  
“It’s just time, Harry,” she says simply, and a tiny smile tugs at her lips. “Time wounds all heels.”  
  
When Harry’s eyebrows draw together in a puzzled frown, her smile widens and a familiar warm sadness creeps around her heart. “Fred always used to tell me that whenever some idiotic boy upset me,” she explains, meeting his eyes easily now. “Which was often, because I really knew how to pick them.”  
  
“What was wrong with Dean?” Harry demands, apparently scandalised.  
  
Ginny laughs; she can’t help it. “I didn’t say there was anything _wrong_ with him,” she says and then pauses, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  
  
“Hey,” he says suddenly, and there it is. He’s been concentrating so hard on keeping his dancing together that, if she knows him, he has only just caught and processed the potential slight.  
  
“I didn’t mean you,” she says, turning her head away from him as they take on an ambitious crossing step with barely a wobble.  
  
“You did a little bit,” he says softly, and she bites her lip.  
  
She just carries on dancing, because he’s right and because he’s wrong. Harry Potter wasn’t a poor choice; she wouldn’t take back a second of it. Losing him hurts, even though she knows that they started to lose one another years before any of this, and even though she will never tell him just how painful it has been. She refuses to be painted as the victim, partly because she isn’t and partly because the knowledge of every horrible detail will do nothing but allow Harry’s own guilt to sink him, and that will help no one, least of all her. Still, she has cried into cups of tea and through mouthfuls of minty toothbrush and over her own weary reflection, startled into tears by her own loneliness. It’s just a reaction, she tells herself, the grief of solitude after years of partnership, and it’s probably true, because she knows she isn’t crying for her marriage, but logic doesn’t seem to help at all.  
  
Lily has cried, too, clinging to her mother and getting school-shoe mud all over the sofa, shedding quiet, sad tears that soak Ginny’s shirts and make her own eyes prickle in empathy. Lily is clever and kind and does not begrudge Harry his happiness, but she is also just a little girl who misses her dad and worries constantly that he will forget to remember her. For better or worse, though, they have chosen to pull tightly together, keep things positive, and wait, because already, the small signs of recovery are everywhere: Al is fascinated with his dad’s new lifestyle and is bursting with more questions than ever, Lily’s classmates are enthralled by her tales of weekends in London, and James’ grades have picked up considerably since Harry started taking an interest in his Quidditch games. She’s prepared to overlook the occasional detention for hexing the likes of Alana Smith; in fact, her son’s willingness to stand up for his father makes her rather proud.  
  
She barely notices the dance coming to an end, but the flash of a camera somewhere nearby is hard to miss, and she turns to look, just as the Ministry photographer, a neat-haired man in dark formal robes, snaps another picture of her with Harry. Cringing slightly, she glances up at Harry, wondering if he’s going to be cross at being photographed with his ex-wife, but he just rolls his eyes and grins at her.  
  
“Could have been worse. At least we both look nice and no one is standing on anyone else’s feet.”  
  
Ginny smiles, letting go of Harry and stepping back. “Well, I wasn’t going to say anything, but your dancing has really improved.”  
  
Harry opens his mouth to respond, but stops as the orchestra launches into the next piece of music. His eyes flick momentarily across the room and then meet with Ginny’s once more. His smile is dangerous, and she doesn’t know whether to be anxious or intrigued.  
  
“Maybe you should hold onto that statement until after this dance,” he says, and before she has a chance to respond, he is grabbing her hand and pulling her back into hold, and, just a fraction of a second later, she is being whisked into the middle of a swirling maelstrom of dancers.  
  
“Harry,” she manages breathlessly as they slow for a count of three between one series of spins and another, “don’t you think this is a little bit ambitious?”  
  
He laughs and pulls her into the next turn, stepping on the bottom of her dress and almost sending them both flying. “Sorry! I love a good Veelan Waltz, don’t you?”  
  
Baffled, Ginny blinks, trying not to look at the other whirling couples as she begins to feel slightly dizzy. “I have no idea—is this a good Veelan Waltz?”  
  
“Could be worse!” Harry calls, now having to raise his voice above the swell of the music and the boom-clatter-stomp of boots and heels against wood. “Relax your shoulders,” he adds, apparently amused. “It’ll be easier.”  
  
Ginny obeys and he’s right; she has no idea what is going on with the world any more. Confused and oddly exhilarated, she closes her eyes and throws herself into the dance, ignoring the mistakes and allowing herself to be carried, whizzed and spun around the floor. She can’t be sure she’s putting her feet down in the right places but it doesn’t seem to matter; at times she doesn’t seem to be putting them down at all. Harry’s hand is sure at her waist and she feels wonderful. Something is wrenching and changing inside her, creating new pathways and racing through her like _Felix_ in her veins; she can dance with this man who isn’t her husband at a Ministry ball; she can do this—whatever this is.  
  
As the music builds to an impossible tempo she opens her eyes, and as they spin on the spot she locks eyes with the same person over and over again: a distinctly piratey-looking man standing near the edge of the dance floor. Those sharp grey eyes never leave them, and as Ginny watches, she is astonished to see Draco Malfoy’s mouth curve into an odd little smile. Around and around they go, and each time she catches sight of him, the picture is the same. On the final spin before they prepare to move across the floor, he lifts his glass in her direction. It’s not an obvious move, but it’s there, and she just stares back at him, astonished, until Harry whisks her away. When she looks at Harry, he is staring over her shoulder at Draco, and she sighs, wondering idly if she will ever know just what is so special about him. Or about them, more to the point, she supposes.  
  
It’s always been there; there’s never been anything truly surprising about it, and she has to admit that if she had seen them together sooner, it might have been more difficult to close her eyes for all those years and tell herself that their marriage was working. That it was more than habit and the security of the kind of love that could never be enough.  
  
For either of them.  
  
Before she has time to descend into her thoughts, the steps and twirls are slowing and she and Harry circle one another carefully, flushed and breathing hard. When the music stops, the room breaks into spontaneous applause and Ginny looks around, startled, as she realises that all the guests are on their feet to congratulate those brave enough to take on the challenging dance. Hermione looks staggered and delighted, and she thinks Ron is the one wolf-whistling.  
  
Harry grins and sketches a little bow. “Sorry about that, Gin. I couldn’t resist.”  
  
“Don’t apologise. I think it’s impressive that you can still surprise someone who has known you for twenty-six years,” she says, lifting her hair from her hot forehead.  
  
Harry ruffles his hair and shrugs sheepishly. “Do you want me to walk you back over? I need a word with Ron anyway.”  
  
Ginny eyes the sea of people heading off the dance floor and toward the tables where Ron and Hermione are once more sitting. “No, thanks. I think I need some air.”  
  
Harry’s eyes narrow with concern. “Are you alright?”  
  
“I’m fine, Harry,” she says, and she thinks she might be.  
  
**~*~**  
  
The night air is deliciously cool against her skin as she leans on the stone balcony and gazes out over the grounds. The moon is bright and full, casting silvery light over the ripples on the lake, and the breeze brings muffled sounds of strings and laughter and the soft scent of approaching summer. The vigorous dancing has sent her heart into a pounding rhythm, and something about the velvety night only sends a hum of inexplicable anticipation into the pit of her stomach.  
  
She exhales slowly, pressing her fingers against cold, rough stone. The breeze ruffles around her, picking up her gauzy dress fabric and swishing it around her ankles. In the distance, something large flaps its wings.  
  
“Ah, there you are,” booms a familiar and very loud voice. She turns.  
  
“Hello, Blaise,” she says, suddenly feeling self-conscious.  
  
He beams, displaying bright white teeth. “Ginevra, you look distressingly ravishing this evening. Accountants never looked like this when I was young.”  
  
“I’m not an accountant, Blaise,” she says, folding her arms and shivering slightly. She hadn’t thought she was cold. She is surprised, though. She didn’t think it had ever occurred to him to notice her as anything more decorative than a colleague or perhaps a necessary irritation. More unnerving still is that she has no idea what she wants to feel about it.  
  
“Stop avoiding the compliment,” Blaise instructs, producing a glass of sparkly stuff, which he hands to her before shedding his enormous jacket and holding it out with a look in his eyes that _dares_ her to refuse.  
  
“Thank you,” she mumbles, draping the immense garment over her shoulders. The fabric is warm and the lining silky, and as Blaise comes to join her at the balcony in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, she can’t resist pressing her nose to the lapel and inhaling tentatively.  
  
“You were wonderful this evening,” he says, large hands laced together atop the stone barrier.  
  
His coat smells warm, like heavy fruits and spices. Potentially intoxicating, she thinks, sipping her drink and scrabbling for words. Comforting and unknown at the same time.  
  
Perhaps it’s time for something unknown.  
  
“I was afraid this evening,” she admits.  
  
“Of course. But you did it regardless. That only makes it more wonderful.”  
  
Breath quick and stomach tight, Ginny glances up at his dark profile. He’s an interesting man. A handsome man, too, there’s no use in denying it. He thinks she’s wonderful... at least for this evening. He’s not her husband—nobody is. And here she is—she has never loved anyone but Harry. She has never really tried. And now she’s thirty-six years old and she has to start again from nothing. It’s terrifying. And exciting. And terrifying again.  
  
“I didn’t know you could dance,” Blaise offers.  
  
Ginny takes a deep breath. In the ballroom behind them, another fast dance is starting up and she wonders where and when Harry learned to do a half-decent Veelan Waltz.  
  
“I’m sure there’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she says, staring at the moon and pretending nonchalance.  
  
Blaise laughs. It’s a rather brilliant sound.  
  
**~*~**  
  
 _Nothing compares  
No worries or cares  
Regrets and mistakes  
They are memories made  
Who would have known how bittersweet this would taste?  
  
  
Never mind, I'll find someone like you  
I wish nothing but the best for you, too  
Don't forget me, I beg  
I remember you said,  
Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead_


End file.
